Siren Under Twin Suns
by J.T.'s A.X
Summary: Innocent no longer. A cunning, intelligent charmer. A defiant, hot-headed rebel. A saucy, reckless adrenaline-junkie. A damn good singer. Trained in the arts of knife wielding and street fighting. Gifted with never-before-seen powers. Daughter of a man with a hidden past. Older sister to the Hero with No Fear. What more could a guy ask for? ...So what IS he waiting for...?


**A/N: Slow building; OC alert for OC haters; rated mainly for language—at least until a LOT later.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars; I am merely playing in someone else's sandbox.**

**SW**SW**SW**

In hind sight, he'd eventually see that it was the best decision they could have made, considering not just their plight but the later benefits he got from it. But right then, all Obi-Wan could think about was how frustrating their problem was. He couldn't decide what was worse: having a dying engine and a completely dead hyperdrive generator, or being unable to go with his master to go search for the new parts in Mos Espa and therefore being stuck in the ship with a host of nosy, fastidious handmaidens underfoot.

He was currently pacing back and forth in the ship's cramped sitting area trying to relieve his tensions since he was unable to meditate because every time he tried to, on of said handmaidens would attempt to sneak up on him, start a conversation and flirt with him, or ogle him, and it was getting very annoying. These were supposed to act like mature political security figures not giggling teenagers… even though that's technically what they _were_.

Already, he was uncertain how or where he'd be able to get any sleep that night.

Huffing a sigh, he wandered to the hold where the robots were, attempting to find solace in the dimly lit cargo hold.

"Dodge 'im; dodge 'im!"

_This is a joke!_

_Right 'ook, Sy! Right, not LEFT damnit!_

"S'bout time girl!"

_That loud mouth is about to lose me a bunch of money on that hoe!_

"C'mon Zad! You gonna let **that** bitch beat you!?"

_Ow! That stings like hell! You're gonna pay, girl! Just move a lil' more to your left, ya little slut!_

With a smirk, she listened to the voices in her head, feigning left but snapping back right, easily blocking his intended blow and connecting with his jaw again, making his head spin.

With a pained grunt and a vicious blue streak, he swung with all his might at the first opening. But while he had the brawns and the drive, she had the brains and the experience, not to mention the figure, flexibility, incredible balance, and speed. So she received nothing more than a glancing blow as she ducked away—and by ducked… well, more like leaned backwards while expertly spinning on the ball of one foot and effortlessly pirouetting to lash out with the other.

In the blink of an eye, she's spun behind him and caught the back of his knee with the heel of her boot causing him to reflexively stumble. She took this opportunity to take a running pounce, using the momentum to help her tackle him to the ground, locking her elbows under his upper arms and pulling his shoulders back painfully. She clasped her hands behind his head, effectively pinning him as she straddled his broad back, hugging his torso tightly between her knees and harshly grinding his face into the dirt. What? The douche bag deserved it…

Her friends and half the crowd cheered while the other half grumbled, booed, and shouted at 'Zad' to up his game.

_Too late_, she thought with a grin as she relished in another soon-to-be-victory, feeling her now helpless opponent writhing and squirming beneath her.

"Surrender?" she asked finally, her hone full of taunting mirth, mouth in a mocking smile, eyes glowing with heady excitement, and sweat-drenched body trembling from the adrenaline rush.

"Never," the man grit out between clenched teeth, trying and failing to pull his arms back down against his sides to gain enough leverage to flip them over. It was a futile attempt because in the next second, he was unsuccessfully stifling a whimper as she yanked his shoulders back further, leaning down as if to whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

"Fine, have it your way… but I can do this aaaaaallll day, buddy. So you'd better quit while you're still ahead."

_Head! _He thought, snapping his head back roughly, hoping to catch her face.

Unfortunately for him, she'd overheard this little exclamation and yanked her head away, almost in sync with his own movements.

"Aha! I saw what you almost did there," she sneered, low and menacing yet seriously and casually as she roughly jerked his shoulders even further back, nearly dislocating them. "I mean it: **surrender**! NOW, or I **WILL** yank both your shoulders out of your sockets because there is not rule against it. Then, I'll slowly and steadily apply pressure until your clavicles snap in half," she punctuates this by driving his chest forwards with her knee while pulling his shoulders back, "then, I'll do the same for your upper arms and afterwards your forearms… and then your wrists—"

"Alright! I surrender!"

"Thought you'd come to see things my way," she purred, almost seductively.

"Bitch!"

For that, she gave one last hard yank before releasing him and leaping to her feet, using quick reflexes in case her opponent tried to roll, trip her, or get a final punch in as she let him go.

But she'd done her job well, as usual, because chances are he'd be too sore to do much of _anything_ for the next few days.

As it was, he was in no condition to attempt a last minute offensive, only moaning and groaning as he lay in the dirt—nothing but a crumpled, aching mess.

She stepped over into the protective circle of her waiting friends and sponsors and from this new vantage point she gave a cocky bow and a seductive smirk, announcing, "Thank you, thank you; I'll be here all week."

Then, she turned and strode back into the bar, safely what with all the 'friendly blasters' or her regular sponsors and their cohorts trained on the losing betters, just so those people wouldn't try anything and cut short an incredible risky but lucrative business.

"And you're sure there isn't anything of value left on board?"

"Not enough for you to barter with, Master. Not in the amounts you're talking about."

With a sigh of disappointment, "All right. Another solution will present itself…"

He couldn't help echoing his master's sigh, his filled with worry and frustration. Why couldn't things be simpler?

One in the haven of her run-down yet comfortable personal quarters in the bar's second story, she turned to the handful of friends who'd followed her.

"Big thanks to Uredi for telling me to go with that right hook, "she grinned as she slid down into a split and leaned over to touch her toe—this was part of her normal, 'cool-down' stretch routine.

"Pleasure's all mine," replied the older teen twi'lik, tossing her proud head with mock arrogance, "remember, when you're an intergalactic superstar, just _who_ taught you all you know."

"Always," she laughed, doing a butterfly stretch.

"Hey, I helped, too," whined a slightly younger, amethyst-eyed alien, twirling an lime-green antenna around nimble, dark green fingers.

"Uh-huh; _sure_ you did," snarked another—a badass, hotshot rookie-smuggler named Kiya as she brushed razored blood-red bangs out of overly-critical cat-eyes, "I bet you were more of a distraction than anything."

"Shut up, you—"

"Yeah, well, I bet we can ALL be distracting on one level for another. Sy just probably chooses to tune us out," stated an attractive teenage boy as he tried to diffuse the situation between the two.

"Boy, you got that right, Nayin," smirked Syra, tossing him a wink as she bent over backwards in an abs stretch. He stared longingly, still amazed at her lithe flexibility even after all these years.

"Quit drooling," barked his twin, Iena, "that's my _friend_ you're gawking at."

"She's _my_ friend, too," snapped the alien female, Oytera, always desperate to put in her two cents.

"Of course she is," the Uredi sneered sarcastically in a high pitched nasally imitation of poor Tera.

"Guys! Would you four calm DOWN!?" Syra sighed, rising to her feet and putting her hands on her hips. "You're **ALL **my friends! You know I love five like heck, and would gladly take a blaster beam for any one of you, but right now I'm kicking you all out so I can change."

"Aw, c'mon!" teased Nayin, earning a resounding slap upside the head from Iena, a lascivious, knowing smirk from Uredi, and a jealous growl from Kiya. Eager to please, Tera had already left, eventually followed out by the bickering quartet, leaving Syran in peace for once.

"Alone at last," she breathed a sigh of relief, happy to have a break from the obvious hostilities amidst her 'posse'-members.

Turning to a small table in the corner adjacent a small chest of drawers, she opened a drawer and took out a few rags and a brush. Going over the refresher, she wet the rag and began scrubbing away the sand, grime, and dirt from her face before turning her attention to her hair. She let it out of her usual, elaborate braid-in-a-bun and brushed out the almost knee-length strands. Quick, practiced fingers then redid the style, effortlessly replicating the 'before-the-fight' style. She also did her makeup, carefully masking any new bruises with shadows that made the contours of her face seem bold yet secretive. Then, she quickly stepped out of her boots and swapped the skimpy-yet-flattering halter top and short-shorts she typically wore out in the 'arena' for the familiar black leggings and supportive tube-top under a fitted cream-colored tunic; she re-laced her boots. She strapped a dagger to her thigh and added her belt to which she affixed her holster-and-blaster, along with a sleeved myriad of throwing knives. Afterwards, she concealed everything with her blown, long-vest and black over-cloak.

Turning back to the table's mirror, she surveyed herself, taking in the elegant, sleek black up-do; the high, sharp cheekbones; the full, pouty lips painted in a saucy pinkish-red; the bold, Cleopatra wings and smoky eyeshades that highlighted the inquisitive sapphire eyes. With a nod of approval, she reached again into the drawers, retrieving a necklace her mother had given her—she'd claimed it was a gift from Syra's father. She pulled it over her head and tucked it into her tunic before bringing her hood up and leaving her face further in shadows. She never went anywhere without the necklace; aside from being a memorable connection to her roots, it was a handy defense mechanism. The pendant concealed a small dagger and the resilient cord doubled as a strong garrote.

Never let it be said that Syran was ever unprepared—not with her skills, knowledge, and mysterious abilities. Indeed, she was capable of far more that most people gave her credit for and they often paid heavily for the mistake of underestimating her because she was as lethal and cunning as she was confident and charismatic—and she could charm the paint off a wall. The enigmatic girl assessed a person's threat and neutralized it before they could even _think_ to do anything. In her experience, she could take out almost anyone with little effort—she even been offered jobs as a bounty hunter or security guard—which was a major advantage on a planet where girls were commonly kidnapped and sold into slavery.

Never, not since that first time, had she been defenseless in anyway…

But that was all about to change…

She was about to meet her match…


End file.
